“Whom does he mean?—What does he mean?” whispered some of the bystanders. “What prince is he talking of?—Which of the princes?”
“Oh! none of the princes,” replied another. “You know most noble and puissant prince is the title of a marquis, and our right trusty and entirely beloved cousin, the style in which the king writes to him.”
“But who is this marquis expectant?”
“Don’t you know?—Lord Glistonbury.”
“But some of his lordship’s friends ought to take it up, surely.”
“Hush!—his son-in-law will hear you.”
“Where?”
“There—don’t look!”
Vivian was, with reason, so much exasperated by the treacherous duplicity of Lord Glistonbury’s conduct, that he was ill inclined to undertake his lordship’s defence, and determined to leave it to himself, or to his nephew; yet the whispers operated not a little upon his weakness. Wharton, who was walking with his set up and down the room, again came within Vivian’s hearing, and, as he passed, exclaimed, “Public vice! and public virtue! precious, well-matched pair!”
“Who is public vice, and who is public virtue?” said one of Wharton’s companions.